


Empty Title

by hillectant



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Graphic Descriptions of Injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 10:02:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30053766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hillectant/pseuds/hillectant
Summary: A short story I wrote for a Star Wars OC of mine just to work my writing muscles a lil bit. I may add more to this, but for now, I just wanted a place to put it!MASSIVE warnings for descriptions of gore.
Kudos: 1





	Empty Title

**Author's Note:**

> A few disclaimers!
> 
> This character is NOT Cipher 9 from SWTOR’s imperial agent quests. He is, however, a cipher, and exists in the TOR era.
> 
> Cipher 34 (or Lunwood) is my OC who I like to beat up but also make seem kind of cool. He’s a miraluka but is only very, VERY mildly force sensitive. I just wanted to clarify that beforehand!
> 
> I might continue this story or I might not, I’m not sure yet. If I do it’ll probably be in short, chronological and only vaguely-connected episodes. I mostly just wanted a place to post this. Thank you for reading if you decide to, though!!

The world is ringing and tilting side-to-side, unbalanced on the hinges of its axis as Lunwood struggles to get a decent enough foothold to just - just - stand.

The explosion was... big. Bigger than he wanted it to be, far bigger than he intended, and far closer than was strictly healthy for him. Adrenaline numbs the pain, but he feels a stretch in his side, slick and wet and warm down to his thigh, and he knows that he’s fucked up royally.

He can see the Jedi - freshly knighted, probably, too damned green and not fast enough to protect himself but a bitch with a glowing sword - lying face down in the snow. He shuffles towards the man, something in his head alerting him to - oh - his leg is probably broken, somewhere low and aching, but the snow helps. Everything aches when it’s cold, and it is exceptionally, ridiculously, monstrously cold on this trash heap of a planet.

He grabs the Jedi by his silly robes, tosses him onto his back and almost lands on his own from the weight he can’t quite properly distribute. It sends a fresh gush of blood down his side - maybe bile, was his stomach punctured as well? It doesn’t matter yet. It will later, he decides, because he doesn’t have time for it to matter right now.

He tugs his mask off and kneels, painfully, knees in the man’s rib cage hard enough to bruise if not break and ear against his mouth and - ah, alive. A finger to his pulse confirms it and that’s good. It’s good, even if he’s disappointed, because it means datawork and he doesn’t have any kriffing eyes and the droning, tinny voice of his shitty droid gives him a headache, unfailingly.

He hauls the limp form over his shoulder. He won’t be awake for a time, and it’s time enough for him to get to his shuttle. He just hopes his blood hasn’t run out by then.

—————————

He’s almost there and he drops the Jedi, following him down, mercifully cushioned by the snow but not by much.

He hurts; his leg is certainly broken, creaking under his weight, and the gash to his side is too sore to judge the severity of, but it’s certainly severe. He needs to get to the kriffing shuttle, he can’t contact Watcher from here, his leg is going numb and he needs to breathe. He just- he needs that, a moment without an entire extra body on his bones, and a breath of cold, biting air.

His throat feels raw enough to bleed by the time he’s had it. He picks up the Jedi - miraculously still alive and even more miraculously still unconscious - and keeps going.

—————————

The ship is so warm that he thinks he might melt.

“Get us off of this fucking rock,” he growls, voice torn to shreds, he thinks, but not enough that his tin can doesn’t obey with a witty string of binary that he doesn’t care to translate. The part of his brain that stores language has promptly shut down that the blood flow may be redirected to whatever lobe is dedicated to making Intelligence happy.

Force cuffs, wrists and ankles. Vitals. Blood sample. Kolto. Tranq. More vitals. Enough chains to hold down a bantha.

The ship rumbles and shifts, vertigo and gravity pinning him against a durasteel wall. The chains keep his prisoner from rolling, but he doesn’t have that luxury. He apologizes, sluggish, to the plant he bumps against, and she assures him that no harm is done.

He decides that his wounds probably matter now.


End file.
